


I'm flattered

by searwrites (sears)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Bottom Jean, M/M, Modern AU, Sexual Content, one big ridiculous drunken cliche, titty bars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 08:26:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1933896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sears/pseuds/searwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Armin is straight. But Jean's mother once told him he could charm the pants off of anything, so there's that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm flattered

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for half-drunken sexual encounters, questioning sexuality, and all the shit that goes along with that

It’s more than a little ridiculous to think of it this way, but it is quite possibly the _worst_ thing Jean has ever heard when Armin says, “I’m sorry, I’m straight.”

And his sheer bottomed-out devastation must be glaringly obvious on his face, because Armin quickly follows it with an urgent, “But I’m flattered! Really.”

Jean grins, as best he knows how, and puts a little extra _oomph_ into guzzling down his beer. Surrounded by coworkers, the people that grow to know more about you than your own family, and he’s laid himself bare like an idiot. Connie is sending him a sad look off to the side, while Sasha is conveniently avoiding looking at anything except the table- and Jean isn’t even drunk. He’s just tipsy and stupid on the buzz he always gets when Armin chooses to sit next to him of his own accord.

“Oh, that’s fine,” Jean says, voice tight and awkward, because what the fuck else do you say to that? _‘Can you try not being straight for a while? You might like it!’_ or _‘I’m sorry too’_ just seems too abrasive. Especially to Armin, he’s just… precious. Thinking about it makes Jean’s heart hurt. “Really though, I hope it doesn’t make you uncomfortable or anything.”

“It won’t,” Armin insists, smiling and looking sadder than Jean feels.

Luckily their bag-cooked appetizers arrive to interrupt the individual conversations, and Jean can pretend like he’s forgotten it even happened.

 

\--

 

Working in a corporate office of over a thousand people is like living in a small city. Each floor is like it’s own neighborhood, each street has its own small-town celebrities. If Jean were a cocky bastard, he’d say he’s floor 7’s David Beckham. Really only because he copied his hairstyle- he’s been told by Dawk he looks like Becks circa 2002. But then that only makes him think about how Armin looks like Beckham circa 2003, and how when the planets align within an inch of each other- the way they always seem to do- it sometimes feels like Armin still could possibly, maybe, not be _entirely_ straight.

Anyways, celebrities. Jean has personality. In an office full of drones, that helps- somewhat. It means that people are drawn to you. It makes the basic data management you spend all day boring your eyes into seem somewhat glamorous. It also means that cute interns that sometimes put their hair into entirely unfair ponytails think the sun shines out of your ass.

Except now all of that is ruined. It’s like whenever Armin looks at him the only emotion he can grab onto is pity. It feels like every slightly downward smile is another _‘I’m flattered’_.

But Jean has _personality_. Which also means he’s good at lying, which in turn means he can grin with the force of a small army, pinch the back of Armin’s neck with his thumb and forefinger, and say, “You’re still such a runt, drink less coffee,” even though Armin is only about an inch or two shorter than him. He just has big eyes that are upsettingly cute, so he seems smaller. In a way.

 

\--

 

Sasha does this thing where she runs into peoples’ offices and slams the door behind her and demands to ‘talk’. Except by _people_ Jean means _himself_ , and she really needs to learn when to fucking drop it.

“Are you upset? You look upset.”

“I’m not _upset_ , for fuck’s sake- don’t you have someone else to bother? Work to do?”

Sasha ignores him, bites on the inside of her lip like she’s troubled. “You have a mopey smile. It’s not nice.”

“How does someone smile _mope-ily_? I don’t understand.”

Sasha smiles slowly, sadly-- and okay, sadness in steel framed buildings with walls made of glass is definitely an infection. He never should’ve confided in her in the first place.

“There’s other fish in the sea-”

“ _Alright_ ,” Jean interrupts, ushering her tiny but humongous presence out of his office, “That’s enough for one lifetime, goodbye.”

Sometimes he wishes he were like the guys in tech- blending in with the blandness of the carpet.

 

\--

 

“Come get coffee with me,” Armin says with a tiny, mischievous smile. He’s brandishing one of his own expensive k-cups like a lure- like they don’t offer free ones in the break room anyway, though Jean has himself convinced that Armin’s coffee tastes better.

“You know, you _are_ an intern- I could order you to get it for me and bring it to me.”

Armin grins. “No you couldn’t.”

“I _couldn’t_. But I _would_. Would you wait on me if I asked you? I think I’ve been too nice.”

He’s flirting again, and by the hesitant way Armin’s smile slips, it’s obvious. It’s just so fucking _difficult_ now. Goddamn fucking happy hour at Chili’s, ruined everything.

Except Armin replies, very quietly, “I would.”

It’s like someone dropped his stomach off of a very tall building, hitting him with a dizzying force of realization. Armin’s cheeks are pink, and he’s doing that thing where he picks at his nails when he’s nervous, and he’s _flirting back_. But he’s straight, so what in the fuck-

“Nah, I wouldn’t do that to you,” Jean amends quickly, standing jerkily to rid himself of the sudden buzz of nerves. He’s so desperate he’s imagining things now- the sun-fried survivor finding the glittering oasis, delirious with possibility and hope, even when there is none.

When they get to the breakroom, Armin stands close enough to Jean that when they both look at each other and start giggling at absolutely nothing, he shoulders Jean in the chest, but then doesn’t move away. They’re standing so close they’re touching, in an otherwise empty room, and Jean thinks there might be other fish in the sea, yes, but only one named Armin Arlert with big blue eyes, and he’s _fucked_ \- so fucked.

 

\--

 

Jean doesn’t remember how he got Armin’s number exactly. It was not long after he was hired on, and in some brash effort at making Armin feel like he had to have it. Like Jean would be his ticket to the top, the hand that helps him climb the corporate ladder, when in reality Jean only barely has his own office.

Still, it’s been a good excuse to send random texts to complain about the day. Or even the occasional _‘plans 4 the wkend?’_ to which Armin will reply _‘not really’_ and Jean never plucked the courage to say _‘me neither, lets be planless 2gether’_.

Except it’s Armin that initiated this time, and Jean is in his flannel pajamas eating cheetos and watching Cops reruns.

_‘doing anything exciting? erwin gave me homework :(‘_

Jean wipes his orange, dusty fingers off on his shirt like the oblivious mess he is, and replies, _‘bossman, huh! don’t get 2 big for ur boots icarus, flyin so close to the sun’_

_‘:D i’ll take your office and corporate mug. but really… bored zzz’_

The sounds of degenerates being tackled to crumbling sidewalks turns into a muted backing track. This isn’t the kind of thing Armin would text him about just to brag- he really just… wants to _talk_ , or something.

_‘watching cops under a blanket of crumbs. sry not as flashy a friday nite as i usually brag abt’_

Armin doesn’t reply for a minute or two, which is disappointing and feels almost like another rejection in a way. Like letting Armin know that he isn’t out clubbing every spare minute of every day is baring his soul, at least to an extent. So Armin thinks he’s a gay loner loser now. Great.

Only when he’s just catching back up with the storyline- drug bust, woman wearing a sheet claims the man who sold her meth broke into her house to take a bath or some shit- Armin actually calls him. Jean has to stop himself from picking up immediately- god forbid.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Told you you’d need my help eventually. What’s Smith got you doin’ anyway? I thought he didn’t speak to the _lowlings_.”

Armin giggles a little, and something similar to the sound of him tucking his hair behind his ears rustles through the phone. Jean shivers.

“Nah, I already finished. He wanted me to fix the data scraper because he didn’t want to have to pay for third party.”

Jean forgot to mention that Armin is smart- _extremely_ smart. He will definitely have an office bigger than Jean’s within a year, guaranteed.

“Well, if you’ve called to gloat, I’m impressed. I’ve been trying to stroke your ego since day one and you never let me.”

Armin takes a slow, measured breath, and something like fear trickles down Jean’s spine. That’s the breath of meaningful pause- the kind of breath you take before you say something you either don’t want to say, or know someone doesn’t want to hear.

“Do you ever feel… like. I don’t know. Like you know who you are, and then something hits you dead in the face, and you start to wonder why you’ve made the choices you have to get to this point?”

Jean’s eyes squint. “Are you drinking right now? Is this a drunk dial?”

“No,” Armin laughs, “No, no, I just. Mikasa says I’m having a post-college identity crisis.”

Mikasa, another intern that started a little while before Armin, seems to have the answers to everything. At least, answers that Armin always takes as gospel. Jean thinks she’s too far over the philosophically blunt edge, but she’s insanely attractive too, so he gets it. Even though _now_ Jean is convinced they’re dating.

“Well, Mikasa is also a corporate baby like you, so that could just be an excuse,” Jean says, trying his best not to sound bitter.

“I think you’re the most self-assured person I know,” Armin says, almost in awe, and Jean snorts. “No, I mean it. It’s… admirable.”

“You’ve _definitely_ been drinking.”

Armin laughs, almost nervously awkward, and says, “I kind of wish I was now.”

Jean’s tiny pea-brain doesn’t get it. He can’t understand why someone who has such a solid head on his shoulders is suddenly sounding so afraid of his own life.

“You just kind of,” Jean begins, cursing himself inwardly when he notices he’s started picking at his nails the way Armin does, “go with the flow, you know? Do what you need to do to get where you want to be.” And just to be a cocksure asshole, he adds, “And if that means suckin’ the boss’ dick to get to the top, you know I’ll support you along the way.”

Armin makes an odd choking sound, but laughs it off, and Jean feels kind of horrible. This was an attempt at a serious conversation that he just batted away with casual banter.

“Yeah, I don’t even think that would get me the job, unfortunately,” he says, and Jean wants to punch a wall. This self-deprecating streak of remarks Armin is so prone to is becoming too much now. “Anyway, I’ll let you get back to being a lazy slob.”

Jean huffs out an almost-laugh. “Thanks.”

They say goodbye, and Jean, for once, takes Sasha’s glossy-mag advice - pick your head up and move on, there’s someone else out there.

 

\--

 

Armin starts to get brave.

“So, do you have a boyfriend?”

Jean lifts his eyebrows in cautious surprise.

“I just mean… I didn’t know you were gay. All the girls love you. They gossip about you and Sasha a lot.”

Jean snorts, dropping his gaze to his boring canteen lunch. “Well, this office does love its gossip. Like a bigger, bitchier high school.”

Rather keen to ignore this topic of conversation, Jean prods at the soupy meat on his tray. Armin just keeps staring at him, and his gaze feels like a needle prodding him in the side.

“ _What?_ ”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Jean rolls his eyes in that dramatic way he does so that Armin knows his ‘annoyance’ is all a joke. “Nosy little shit. No, I do not have a boyfriend. Why would I have… done that, if I did?”

Armin turns bright red. Which is cute, in an infuriating way.

“I didn’t, uh, think of that. Sorry.”

Jean smiles despite the aching pit of despair manifesting in his chest. He’s helpless to this fucking boy and his endearingly clumsy approach to life.

“It’s fine.”

“I really am flattered,” Armin mumbles as an afterthought, and Jean’s smile cracks and falls to pieces.

“Thanks,” he says coldly, because there really isn’t anything else to say.

 

\--

 

Their floor does a teambuilding exercise at a trampoline park. Most everyone shows up in jeans or loose pants, except Armin- Armin shows up looking like he’s preparing for _tour de_ fucking _france_ , with a lycra looking tshirt that clings to every inch of him and these little black shorts that make Jean want to strangle something small and innocent.

Armin immediately catches his mistake, covering his crotch like he’s naked, and cowering next to Jean. He whispers, “the email didn’t say the dress code, I assumed this was a gym!”

Jean can’t help but laugh. “Who the hell wears bike shorts to a gym?” he says, and then feels bad about it when Armin’s face turns even redder.

They hold hands like hippies and jump around in circles for a few hours. It’s gayer than the rare nights Jean does manage to make it to Glitz, the local homo friendly bar. It takes every ounce of inner-strength that Jean has to keep from looking over at Armin to his side to watch the way his ass jiggles when he bounces.

He fails.

By the time they’re all doing the stupid trust falls, Armin ends up getting launched halfway to the ceiling by a well-timed jump from Bertholdt, and manages to collapse on Jean with all of his weight. Jean looks. Not just looks though, that ass is pressed into the inner part of his thigh, and he is _not_ getting hard at _‘lets build teamwork by acting like preschoolers’_ day. He pushes Armin off him with possibly revealing haste, and Armin finally looks like he understands the feeling of rejection. He stops laughing like a lunatic, and looks at Jean like he’s hurt, and Jean is so _tired_ of this.

By the time he gets home Jean has around 20 tabs open for job vacancies. He won’t actually _do_ it, but knowing they’re out there is somehow reassuring.

 

\--

 

 

It all comes to a point at a titty-bar. Go figure.

 

It’s Connie’s idea. Which doesn’t explain why Sasha and Mikasa actually agree to it, but they do. Armin manages to tug on Jean’s arm and use his eyes to beg, and he caves. Jean actually kind of likes boobs, even though Armin is begging him like he’s asking him to step into a vat of angry bees.

So, Jean is fully expecting to be sitting miserably alone at the edge of the bar. To be stuck watching Armin ogle his sexual preference in the flesh, quite literally, and to be a mopey dick when some poor stripper does her job and asks him if he wants a dance.

 

It isn’t quite like that, though.

 

For starters, the place isn’t so much a strip club as a clothed voyeuristic experience. Think hooters but with dancers instead of waitresses. Although the bartender _does_ have an amazing rack on her too, Jean notices.

The other thing Jean just so happens to notice, is that Armin has cornered him off to the side and he seems to be looking more at _Jean_ than at the girls, which is odd, considering his affinity for breasts and soft womenly bits.

“Do I have something on my face or something?”

Armin giggles and shakes his head in a no. They haven’t been here long enough for Jean to get drunk- only a few beers- but Armin looks well past tipsy by now. It’s making his eyes all heavy and droopy, and his mouth has this lazy looking pout that Jean wants to kiss, terribly so.

“You just. You’re a really attractive guy, you know that?”

And oh no, this isn’t happening. He’s not getting the fishy fucking sea talk from _Armin,_ of all people. He already had another half assed one with Connie where he spent most of the talk slapping Jean on the back- an obvious Sasha set up.

“Save it,” Jean snaps, angry with himself more than Armin. “You don’t have to keep bringing it up. I know you’re straight.”

Armin blinks and swallows, a little pink in the cheeks, but otherwise unfazed. Determined, maybe, in a lost sort of way.

“I’m sorry, I’ve just never had a guy like me before. And I mean it, you’re the hottest guy I’ve ever seen, like… all the girls are obsessed with you. I think some actually cried when I told them you were gay.”

This tiny, _awful_ little spark of hope lifts Jean’s otherwise sunken heart. He almost stops Armin, but he’s rambling now, definitely well past tipsy.

“It’s just so… _flattering_ ,” is what he decides to end on.

Jean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, you’ve said that already.”

“Hey,” Armin places a trembling hand on Jean’s thigh in attempts to get him to look at him, and Jean’s heart leaps into his throat, “I’m in a room full of half-naked girls, and I can still only look at you.”

Jean’s entire body goes into shock. It’s like the penultimate chapter of a book, the first hints at the whole story, the slow trickle of realization. Jean tries to say something, but all that comes out is slightly confused huffs of air, and he feels ten times drunker than he did ten seconds ago. Armin isn’t finished talking, anyway.

“I can’t _stop_ thinking about you. Ever since you told me, I just. It’s like I’m obsessed.”

Armin laughs, at himself more than anything, filled with his usual dose of self-deprecation.

And this is it, really. Jean is going to kiss him. Jean is going to kiss the boy he’s been pining for for over 4 months, the boy who said he was straight and _flattered_. Jean is going to kiss his pathetic straight crush in a room dedicated to the worship of tits.

When Jean touches Armin’s chin he tilts his head up like he’s been waiting for this all along, like he’s hungry for the taste of Jean’s mouth. The first kiss is a chaste, barely-there touch, but then Armin shifts and parts his lips, and Jean slides his hand up the back of Armin’s neck, grips his hair, because god fucking help the world if Armin pulls away now.

Except… that wouldn’t be fair. Armin called him that night, afraid of himself; Armin is so nervous in his own skin as it is. Jean pulls away with painful reluctance, panting like he’s running a goddamn marathon, his heart beating so loud he almost can’t hear himself speak.

“You’ve had too many beers, you’re drunk-”

“I’m not!” Armin practically yells, snatching Jean’s wrist with shocking strength when he goes to pull it away from Armin’s hair. “I want… I’ve been _dreaming_ about it, I can’t-”

Jean’s skin ignites. He puts his hand back on Armin’s neck, massaging the ridges of his spine he can reach with his index and middle finger, pulling Armin in without realizing it. He mouths out a curse at the desperate longing in Armin’s big, ridiculous eyes.

“Dreaming about what?”

“You. And me.”

Jean nods like he gets it, like this isn’t blowing every tiny piece of his mind. He’s drunk off the lingering taste of Armin’s tongue, the softness of his lips and how they parted so eagerly. He doesn’t even realize he’s close enough to kiss him again until he does- just his upper lip, a tease, his groin burning when Armin whimpers audibly. He can see Connie and Sasha pointing at them out of the corner of his eye, Sasha probably ranting and raving that this is all _her_ doing, but Jean couldn’t give less of a shit right now.

“I thought you were straight,” Jean says, nuzzling Armin’s nose with his own, helpless to how childish that just sounded.

Armin is immune. He only smiles, looking similarly dazed, and says, “Is there a hotel around here? We should get a hotel. Like. Now.”

There are firefighters with less urgency in their response times. Jean wraps an arm around Armin’s shoulders, only to keep from wanting to toss him over his back and carry him like some kind of fucking prize. Instead they leave the bar together, Jean's heart doing cartwheels in his throat, while Armin calls a taxi.

 

\--

 

Jean knows he isn’t as drunk as he feels.

Armin must not be either, because he has the foresight to stop along the way and pick up ‘supplies’. The fact that he calls it ‘supplies’ and then looks proud of himself when he shows Jean his little bag filled with lube and condoms makes Jean simultaneously want to cry and fuck him until he can’t speak from screaming. Preferrably not at the same time.

And it’s all fine and dandy in theory, but by the time they’re in the hotel room together, it’s like a blanket of terrifying silence covers them, and Armin pauses again. Pauses are horrible, _terrible_ things.

“We don’t have to do this,” Jean says, because he’s not _that_ fucking guy, despite every muscle in his body singing with tension at the thought of Armin turning around and walking away from this.

“No, no, no,” Armin says, Jean’s words seemingly snapping him out of some sort of trance. “I just. I don’t know if I should shower first? Like. You’ll probably have to… do most of the work? And I don’t- _god_ , this is so un-sexy, I’m sorry.”

Jean bursts out a laugh that makes Armin flinch, and then feels terrible about it. He isn’t laughing _at_ him, it’s more of an expunge of relief. That Armin wants this bad enough to want to shower and be _clean_ for Jean. Again with the crying and fucking senseless thing.

“I’m not laughing at you, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says, coddling Armin and lifting his stupid adorable pout so that he can kiss it. He does, slow and pleading, and Armin yields to it. “I think it would be better if I bottomed this time around.”

Armin’s face goes bright red, and Jean grins like an idiot, kisses the mussed heat of his cheeks the way new pet owners kiss their puppies.

“Um, yeah. _Shit_ , yeah, please.”

There’s a fair amount of awkward fumbling to the well made bed, which Jean tears to pieces just to make this whole encounter seem less clinical. He sits back against the headboard once he’s stripped down, Armin seemingly not sure where to look.

He _does_ end up doing most of the work, with Armin’s trembling hand occasionally joining in- guiding his wrist, playing with a tentative curiosity, feeling Jean once he’s ready and groaning like it hurts him to not be inside of Jean.

If this is drunk fucking, then Jean has been doing it wrong all of these years. Jean stays on his back so Armin can kiss him, his elbows shaking so hard his biceps are almost vibrating. Jean eases him down, lets him put his trembling weight onto his chest, and moans when Armin shifts most of it to his knees, starts to roll his hips forward like he gets it now.

It’s almost too much. Jean hasn’t come untouched in years, but he nearly does with only Armin’s panting breath in his ear, and the way his mouth is pressed to the side of his face, like Armin’s too caught up in pleasure to really kiss him, but he wants to. It’s the delicate slide of Armin’s soft stomach against Jean’s cock that does it, that has his back arching and his hand fisting in the back of Armin’s hair. It can’t have been more than a few minutes, which is fucking embarrassing, but it isn’t so bad because it means Armin can fuck him like he’s obviously wanted to- pistoning forward and groaning into Jean’s sweaty neck while he pumps him full.

When they’re finished, Jean lies back in all his naked glory, and makes a tacky joke about needing a smoke. Armin won’t stop staring at Jean, gazing with his big puppy eyes and looking like _he’s_ the one who probably couldn’t stand up straight after this. Pun intended.

He’s tired though, Jean can tell. He presses his face into the side of Jean’s chest, right below the crease of his armpit, while Jean flicks through the static-y channels to find the Cops reruns he knows are playing. Armin inhales deeply, like he’s taking in the scent of Jean’s skin, which makes Jean’s chest ache in the best of ways. When they fall asleep, their legs are tangled together, and Jean’s heart feels like it’s doubled in size.

 

\--

 

When he wakes up, theres a half second where Jean thinks he dreamt the whole thing- that is, until he realizes where he is. And with that comes the sinking realization that Armin is no longer attached to his side, in fact he’s nowhere to be seen.

Ready to sink into a pathetic pit of despair and drink himself stupid enough to start applying to some of those 20 job vacancies he has somewhere in his browser history, Jean stumbles out of bed, his legs and back aching in a way that’s so good it almost makes it all seem worth it.

He ends up tripping over his pants in attempts to put them back on so he can do the walk of shame, curses louder than at _all_ necessary, and then- there he is, jumping out of the bathroom like a silent assassin, ready to strike whatever danger Jean has so obviously encountered by his less-than-manly shriek of rage.

“You okay? Are you hurt?” Armin asks in a rush, stumbling over to Jean with a few drops of water still dripping off his chin, the hair that frames his face a little damp.

Jean laughs, though it sounds a bit like a big pathetic sob, and then carefully pulls Armin’s face to his.

“No. I’m just an idiot.”

Armin grins, and Jean is spoiled for the _rest of his life_. If Armin thought _he_ was flattered…

“Yeah, you are,” Armin replies, and kisses him in that quick and goofy way that couples do. Jean’s heart does a little dance in his chest.

And, at least if nothing else, he has this. There isn’t a point to questioning it- it’s like Connie’s aggressively interested confusion at Sasha admitting she dated girls in college, or like Erwin’s strangely affectionate relationship with his short, angry looking VP, despite being married.

It just _is_ , and he decides to take his own advice and just go with the flow.

 


End file.
